As I Love the Name of Honour
by Direwolfy
Summary: Brienne Tarth was never meant to be a tribute in the Hunger Games. She was most definitely never meant to be a victor. For better or worse, she gets to be both.
1. PART 1

**Hello guys. This is my first foray into fanfiction in several years and my very first attempt at either ASoIaF or Hunger Games. Let's see how it goes.**

 **-Dire**

* * *

 _For let the gods so speed me as I love_

 _The name of honour more than I fear death._

― William Shakespeare, _Julius Caesar_

 **As I love the name of honour**

PART 1

Brienne Tarth was never meant to be a tribute in the Hunger Games.

She had known that from a young age, when her instructors had stopped praising her talent for sword and mace and started stressing the importance of the right kind of presentation and interpersonal skills. It might be enough for a tribute from district Two to be skilled and dangerous, but she was a child of Four and district Four had a reputation to maintain. Their tributes were beautiful and charming and capable of bringing honour to their district with a smile on their face. Such as Margaery Tyrell.

Such as Renly Baratheon.

Brienne watches with an odd sense of detachment as Renly climbs the stage, his trademark grin already fixed in place. He might not be the tribute chosen to volunteer by their instructors, but he is skilled enough, charming enough and well confident in his ability to win. They will let his reaping stand.

It is odd, Brienne reflects, how clearly she is able to think even as her whole world tilts on the axis. She can feel the blood pounding in her head, her hands trembling despite her best effort to keep them still and yet she can perceive everything with a perfect clarity.

Can see the last year's victor Loras Tyrell take a step forward with words of protest on his lips, only to be stopped by his older companions.

Can see the sheen of pallor on Renly's face, even as he never stops smiling.

Can see the vaguely familiar girl with auburn hair – _What was her name? When was she called?_ – valiantly struggling with tears as she waits for a volunteer to step forward.

Can hear the silence. Can see Margaery biting her lip and glancing between her brother and Renly.

And Brienne knows what she has to do.

/ /

Brienne keeps her eyes fixed on the window and the landscape rushing past, doing her best to ignore the conversation flowing around her.

The goodbyes had been mercifully short. His father, gruff and kind as always, but the sceptre of her dead brother stood between them stronger than ever and there was little that could be said. Margaery, who had surprised Brienne both with her visit and the tight hug she had wrapped the taller girl into ( _"_ _I_ _t should_ _have been me._ _I'm so sorry,_ _but_ _I couldn't do that to my brother."_ ). Looking at Loras Tyrell spacing back at forth like an agitated feline, Brienne can hardly blame her.

The most surprising visit had been from her old instructor Catelyn Tully and the young girl from the reaping, whom Brienne finally recognized as Catelyn's daughter Sansa.

" _Brienne," the woman's voice was all business, as calm as if they had been standing in a classroom. "You are strong, you are capable and you are the best fighter of your age. I have no doubt you will be able to do whatever is necessary, if given a good reason._

 _What is a good reason? Brienne wanted to ask, but she already knew the answer._

"Are you even listening, girl?" Olenna Redwyne demands, her crinkled eyes narrowed in a way that hold nothing of the kindly old grandmother she is usually presented as and everything of the infamous Queen of Thorns, who once outwitted the tributes and Gamemakers both. "Goodwin tells me you are handy with weapons, but at this rate you will be dead before the opening gong."

Their Capitol escort Roelle purses her lips. "You are wasting your time Olenna. The girl's a lost cause." Her gaze rakes over Brienne, equal parts scornful and dismissive and Brienne silently begs for the floor to swallow her, even as a part of her wants to rage against the unfairness of it all. "No one in their right mind would spare a broken penny to sponsor this one."

Olenna snorts. "They will change their mind when training scores are announced. If slicing things open with a sword is enough to get people root for some rock-for-brains Two tribute, it should be more than enough for Brienne."

Roelle gives a sniff. "It has to be a high score indeed. Sponsors are not known to be forgiving of blatant deficiencies."

"Then they are fools," Renly scoffs unexpectedly. "But it matters not. I'm sure I can get sponsors enough for both of us."

Goodwin raises an eyebrow. The victor of 39th Games is a familiar face for both tributes, for he is the one who supervises the preparation of all potential volunteers. Brienne has always been fond of the rather gruff man, but there is sharpness in his expression that she has never witnessed before. "I take it you want to be allies, then?" the victor asks, his eyes never leaving Renly's face.

Renly does not appear to be bothered. "I don't see why not," he answers with a shrug, offering Brienne a smile that is far too knowing for her comfort. "You are not going to stab me in my sleep, are you?"

Brienne swallows, trying to ignore the weight of their eyes on her: Renly's amused, Roelle's contemptuous and Loras's unfathomable ones. She does not look up, does not want to know how Goodwin would look at her.

"I won't kill you."

 _Brienne stood up straight and looked her instructor in the eye. "There will be a new victor for Four this year," she swore._

 _Catelyn smiled sadly. "I was afraid you would say that."_

 _/ /_

Like every other child in Panem, Brienne had grown up on the backdrop of the Hunger Games. She had known to be ready for both deadly battle and public scrutiny, but no warnings could have prepared her for the sheer humiliation that came with preparing for her first camera appearance. Hours after hours of being tugged back and forth, being waxed, scrubbed and talked over as if she was someone's problematic pet ( _"Whatever are we going to do with all those freckles?" "Dear god, did you_ see _her teeth?"_ ) left her tired and sore in more ways than she cared to count. Never in her life had she felt so alone and vulnerable. ( _"Don't you dare to cry girl, your face is blotchy enough."_ )

By the time her stylist – a small and efficient woman called Donyse with alarmingly elaborate hairdo – had entered the room, Brienne was ready to scream. Thankfully Donyse had merely given her thoughtful look, clucked her tongue and set to work.

"Straight lines," she says matter-of-factly, draping something blue and heavy around Brienne's shoulders. "Clear colours. Nothing too fussy. You don't strike me as a fussy kind of girl." Brienne shakes her head, but Donyse wasn't waiting for an answer anyway. "Goodwin says they are going for the stoic and honourable route with you. Good. You have the gravitas for this."

 _Gravitas?_ The stylist stands back to examine her handiwork. "Stand up straight. Straighter. Good." She smiles with satisfaction. "Now take a look at yourself."

Brienne examines the stranger in the mirror dubiously. _Gravitas_. Heavy blue fabrics, blue eyes. Her hair miraculously not escaping from the pins holding it back from her face. It was not a figure that would ever charm the Capitol audience, but perhaps it could inspire the thoughts of dignity and honour. She nods.

/ /

"So, Brienne," Illyrio asks, his too-bright teeth flashing. "What are you most looking forward to in the arena?"

Brienne sits up straighter, forcing her shoulders backwards. "I want to bring honour to my district by giving them a victor they can be proud of."

She does not look towards Renly as she says that. By the reaction of the audience, she suspects they can see it anyway.

/ /

Her private session with Gamemakers earns her a score of ten. Not the highest score awarded in these games – she wonders what the red-haired, red-dressed girl from Two did to earn a score of eleven – but nothing to scoff over. Renly gets a nine, as does the red girl's stoic district partner, the scowling, broad-shouldered boy from Twelve and the boy from Six with sharp teeth and slightly unhinged smile. The commentators have already nicknamed him Biter.

"Better steer clear from this one," Loras mutters, no longer even bothering to hide his anxiety. Their youngest victor has grown more and more restless with each passing day, prowling their apartment and offering up strategies only to shoot them down himself.

Renly chuckles. "I would be more worried up the pair from Two. They wanted me to ally with them, but I shoot them down."

"What?" Loras expression is a study of anger and worry. "You should have agreed, at least it would have stopped them from attacking you at Cornucopia."

Renly shrugged. "We just need to take them out first. Right Brienne?"

Brienne only nods, trying to ignore the odd churning in her stomach.

/ /

"Poor Loras," Goodwin mutters. "His boy won't last three days in there, and that's only if the girl finds it in herself to fight for him."

Brienne stops in her tracks, the need for bathroom forgotten. She inches closer to the half-open door, afraid the next words will be drowned out by the sudden pounding in her head.

"You think she won't?" Olenna's voice, carefully neutral. Not arguing against the likelihood of Renly's survival.

A sigh. "She can fight, but she's not a killer, Olenna. Surely you can see that."

"My dear Goodwin." Olenna's voice is amused. "None of us were killers before we entered that place."

/ /

Brienne's world is made of fire, of shadows, of screams. At least some of those are her own, but she has no time to ponder on this. All her senses are occupied with the surprised vacant look in Renly's eyes, with the sharp black shadow falling over his still form.

Brienne runs, runs until she can no longer breathe, until her legs give out and she stumbles. Even so, she pushes herself up again, knowing her adversaries can't be too far ahead of her. _Where did they go? Where did they come from?_ She had been keeping watch, how was that _possible_?

She does not see Melisandre until she's literally on top of the other girl and the two of them crash down together. There's no fear in her adversary's red eyes, only the barest flicker of movement that allows Brienne turn around and put her sword through Stannis's stomach before he can kill her. Melisandre doesn't even blink.

"Go on," she says. "The night is dark and I don't want to be alone here. Just kill me quickly."

So she does.

They seem so harmless now, laying side by side. Fire and shadow. But the flames are extinguished and the morning is fast approaching.

 _Did you see Goodwin? I am a killer after all._

Brienne lets out a strangled noise that is not quite a sob, but is not far from laughter either.

/ /

"Sir? Ma'am?"

The boy can't be older than twelve and the part of Brienne that is not grief-stricken and descending into shock manages to dredge up a memory of little boy from Ten stuttering his way through Illyrio's interview. The boy blanches at the sight of Brienne's bloody clothes and sword, but doesn't run.

"Ma'am?"

"What do you want`" Brienne sighs, her voice hoarse from more than smoke inhalation. Why is the boy not running?

The boy takes a deep breath and steps closer. "I know where to find water," he blurts out. "Food too. If you don't kill me. Ma'am."

Brienne closes her eyes. The truth is, she has no idea what to do any more, but there is desperation in the boy's eyes and Brienne would give anything for a mouthful of water.

"Lead the way then," she concurs. "And my name is Brienne, not ma'am."

She's rewarded by an uneasy smile. "Mine is Pod. My name, I mean."

/ /

"So what do we do next?" Hyle asks, stretching himself out on the pile of fallen leaves, looking for all the world like a farm boy taking a break in hard day's work, not a contender in a deadly competition. Brienne scowls, at the same time envious and unsettled.

"What you intend to do is no concern of mine, as long as you don't stab us while we sleep," she snaps, cringing inwardly as the words evoke a memory of Renly.

"Hard to do that, when you confiscated my dagger," Hyle points out. "You don't need to be like that. I promised I won't kill you unless we are the last ones left. If it comes down to that, I'm probably screwed anyway."

Brienne imagines putting Hyle's dagger through his heart and tries not to shudder. "What makes you think I would wait that long?" Unlike Hyle, she has made no promises.

Hyle's answering laughter is long and louder than sensible. "Oh Brienne. You are _honourable_."

She scowls. "I'm going to look for something to eat."

/ /

Something slams into Brienne, unexpected and heavy as a summer storm. She does not recognize the boy from Six right away, but she recognizes the teeth and the look in his eyes.

She struggles to get away, for the first time truly and utterly terrified for her own sake, but the hands pinning her down are heavy as irons and his breath is hot in her face. There is a moment of blinding agony as the sharp teeth clamp down on her cheek and _no no no, surely not, who_ does _that, this can't be real…_

She's too far gone to feel more than confusion when the weight on top of her suddenly goes slack and then disappears altogether. "You still alive?"

Brienne forces her eyes open. Black hair. Broad shoulders. Scowl. District Twelve. "Is he..."

"Dead," the boy answers, looking at Brienne as if he's struggling with himself. "Look, if I had any sense at all, I'd kill you now. It's not like you're going to last long the way you are." Brienne has no argument to that one. Her cheek feels like it's on fire and there are black spots dancing in front of her eyes.

"Here's the deal," the boy continues, nudging his fallen opponent with a shoe. "This fellow was not alone. There were three others with him. If you want to come along for a slice of payback before you keel over, that's fine by me. I could use some help and you are the honourable sort who probably won't stab me in the back."

Brienne blinks slowly, trying to muster an appropriate response through the confused muddle that is her brain. "Where did they..." she bites off. Talking is too painful.

"They were moving down the hill last I saw them," the boy shrugs. "We can still catch up with them if we hurry."

Brienne's eyes widen as the fogginess of her thoughts gives ground to all too unpleasant clarity. "My friends," she manages to gasp out.

The boy gives him a look of confusion. "Your had allies there?"

"Friends," Brienne insists, struggling to her feet. "Come on." She all but falls down the hill, towards where Hyle and Pod had set up their camp.

/ /

There were two figures dangling in the tree. That's the only thing that Brienne can recall afterwards with any sense of clarity. She does not recall the scene she sees playing out on the huge screen in a different lifetime: of three figures surrounding the tree. Herself, wild-eyed and bloody as she grapples with the girl leading the small band, strangling her with her bare hands. Twelve boy – Gendry – killing one of the others, only to be himself killed by the third member of the band. She does not recall how she remembered Hyle's dagger in time to slit the last survivors throat. Does not recall staggering to the tree where her friends – _friends!_ – had taken their last breaths. Does not recall the trumpets that declared her the victor of the 61st Hunger Games.

She is alive, however, so it must have happened.

/ /

"Well, Brienne," Illyrio says, his smile still too bright, full of awful, sharp teeth. "Last time we were sitting here, you said you wanted to give your district a victor they can be proud of. I must say, you have succeeded most admirably."

Brienne doesn't answer, only hunches herself deeper into her seat, wishing she could disappear.

Never in her life has she felt more like a failure.

 _TBC_


	2. PART 2

PART 2

Brienne Tarth was never meant to be a victor.

She's not sure about lot of things these days, but she's sure of that much. Victors bring honour to their district – everyone knows that. Yet her victory is nothing to be proud of. She can see that in the way his father wanders through the empty rooms of the house too big for just two of them, in the silent accusations Loras throws her way, in her nightmares every night.

There are jagged scars on her right cheek that no one quite looks at, despite the Capitol doctors' best efforts to fix it. She wonders if there are scars in her eyes that make people avoid her gaze, but she can't bring herself to check.

Capitol patched up her cheek, fixed her broken nose, erased her freckles and straightened her teeth, but Brienne finds she cannot bear the sight of mirrors any more.

 _If it is an honour, why do I feel so dirty?_

/ /

"You will be leaving next week," Sansa states, looking up from her book.

It is not a question, but Brienne finds herself nodding all the same. She's not sure what force brings the younger girl back to her house again and again – whether it's a sense of obligation or actual desire for her company – but Brienne finds she can't turn her away. Sansa brings with her stories and songs, legends and fairytales Brienne used to love. Echoes from the world where honour meant something.

"The Victory Tour." The words feel heavy on her tongue, as if saying them out loud brings the dreaded event closer.

Sansa's eyes are all sympathy. "You needn't be so worried. You did not betray your allies. You avenged their deaths. You did everything right."

 _D_ _id_ _I?_ "Their families might think differently."

Sansa shakes her head. "You don't understand. You played the Games as honourably as they can be played. Everyone says so."

Brienne wants to argue, but no words seem to fit.

/ /

What doubts Brienne had about her suitability as a victor start to prove themselves true from the moment she first sets her foot on the stage in District Twelve. Roelle had prepared her speech for her, apparently not trusting her to do it herself. Looking at the prompt cards filled with words like ' _worthy opponent_ ' and ' _honour to compete against_ ' she feels as if her mouth is filled with cotton. She manages to stutter a few words about Gendry saving her life, before promptly fleeing the stage.

The journey towards the Capitol continues, but the growing familiarity of the routine offers no relief. Each district brings some new kind of horror: the broken look of Pod's father in Ten, the phantom pain of teeth sinking in her flesh as they reach Six, the silent condemnation of the crowds who look at her and see a murderer, not a victor.

"Only a few days more," Goodwin says as they skip over Four on their countdown of districts. "We will be in Capital soon enough, then its just the celebrations at home and it will all be over."

"Until the Reaping Day," Brienne answers dully. She has hardly slept for the last few nights, but refuses to take any medication.

"Until the Reaping Day," Goodwin agrees, his dark eyes sharp as he fixes them on Brienne's. "But you have already proved yourself survivor. If arena couldn't break you, what chance does a mere shadow of nightmare have?"

Brienne doesn't answer, but when she stands on the stage in Two it is with her head held high, not flinching from the crowd who mourns the two tributes she has killed.

/ /

After Two, One should have been easy enough. Yet as she stands there, she realises she can't even recall the names of their dead and the words wither and die and her throat is sealed shut.

She leaves the stage with last remnants of dignity wrapped around her like shredded skin and makes her way through One's Justice building, firmly telling herself that the sharp stinging in her throat is a result of too many speeches delivered in cold weather. She turns around yet another corner, hoping to find a side-door that would allow her to escape the building unnoticed. Instead she nearly collides with two of the most famous Hunger Games victors.

Twins, man and woman, golden-haired, green-eyed, dressed all in white. Famous victors both, she knows, even as their names escape her in the shock of the moment. The woman steadies herself on her brother's arm, scowling and muttering something about careless barbarians. The man, however, eyes her from head to toe with the kind of scrutiny that leaves Brienne resisting an urge to look for a weapon.

Eventually, the older victor's green eyes come to rest on her face, lingering for a long moment on her ravaged cheek. His lips curl in a bitter mockery of a smile.

"Well, well, well," he says softly. "Aren't you just a lucky one?"

/ /

It is nearly a dawn when Megga draws her last breath.

Brienne watches numbly as the blindingly white snowdrifts on her screen fade to black and the seal of Panem replaces the curled up body of a young girl in the last throes of hypothermia. They had known this was coming: both Olenna and Goodwin had said as much when the girl collapsed three hours ago and didn't get up. Loras had already disappeared after their boy died in the bloodbath six days ago and Brienne hasn't seen him since.

She stretches herself as much as the too-small chair allows and rubs her face, willing the bright spots to stop dancing behind her eyelids. There is nothing left for her to do, except to catch up on the missed sleep and hope her weariness is enough to keep nightmares at bay. The Games will be over soon enough: Old Bronze Yohn mutters expletives as his tribute Waymar is cut down by the fantastic blue-eyed mutants and Qhorin Halfhand has stood up at the Twelve station, his nose mere inches from the screen as he bellows advice to a boy who can't hear him. His tribute – a boy with the most ironic surname of Snow – had taken an arrow to his thigh, courtesy of his erstwhile ally Ygritte, but he's still better off than any of his remaining competition. Assuming the blue-eyed mutants don't get him first.

Brienne makes her way out of the mentoring room and through the lounge, mumbling a hasty apology to a round-faced Gamemaker trainee, who answers with a watery smile. The boy scurries away immediately, but the sympathy in his expression is enough to bring Brienne to stop. The last thing she wants right now is to go back to the training centre where she has to face the other mentors and give voice to their failure.

"You lost something, Four?" The voice, coming straight from behind her is almost enough to make Brienne jump. She manages to stop herself at the last moment and turns slowly, coming face-to-face with the last victor she wants to see at a time like this.

Jaime Lannister is sprawled on a couch with all the unconscious grace of a slumbering feline, his usual all-white wardrobe replaced with colours of crimson and dark gold. The golden prosthetic of his right hand is wrapped around an elaborate crystal flute filled with burgundy liquid of some sort: after three weeks in Capitol, Brienne knows better than to expect something as innocuous as wine. However, the green eyes observing her over the rim seem to be sharp and alert enough.

"I'm just looking for some coffee," Brienne blurts out, mentally kicking herself for not coming up with an excuse that would allow her to leave the room. Jaime merely shrugs.

"You can get some from behind the buffet, but at this time of night we have to fix our own drinks. Just as well, you can add as much liquid strength as you need."

Brienne mutters a thanks and sets to fixing a beverage she doesn't really want, all too aware of the sharp eyes fixed on her back.

Jaime Lannister. Oh she remembers him now. One of Panem's youngest victors and probably the most infamous one. He had volunteered at fifteen – nearly unheard of even in district One – and charmed the audience with boyish cockiness mixed with genuine-sounding words about honour and glory. His victory had gone down well in Capitol and he had still been riding the wave of his popularity two years later, when he shocked the whole country by taking the life of another victor from his district. Brienne shuddered. To kill in arena was one thing – they had no choice in the matter – but to kill afterwards, to kill another _victor_ , who had already been through so much was unforgivable. The outrage that followed had been terrible, only somewhat soothed when Jaime's sister Cersei volunteered for the next Games. Eventually, the Capitol had forgotten their anger and taken both golden twins back to their embrace, but the districts were slower to forgive.

And that was not even brushing on the more recent rumours about the man's sexual escapades, especially those involving his sister and the paternity of her little golden-haired boy.

Brienne wraps both her hands around the steaming mug, the familiar smell of strong coffee unexpectedly soothing. She turns around to see that, yes, Jaime is indeed watching her, his glass untouched and one eyebrow cocked in amusement. Probably wondering why she didn't boost her drink with anything stronger than sugar.

"Why don't you sit for a moment," Jaime gestures. "It's quiet down here, with Game's being almost over."

Brienne grits her teeth. The mug is growing too hot in her grip, so she's forced to sit despite her better judgement, so she could set it on the table. "Shouldn't you be on your station?" She's fairly sure One boy is still in the running.

Jaime waves his hand dismissively. "Cersei figured Lancel's not going to last until the morning. Not much I can do for him at this point, even if I hadn't lost a track of what's going on. Has the Twelve boy switched allegiances again?"

His mocking tone sets Brienne's teeth on edge. "He does what he has to do."

"Don't we all?" Jaime reaches under the table, using his good hand to dig out another glass. "How about some wine?" He smirks, catching Brienne's surprised expression. "It really is just wine, I swear."

"Why?" Brienne asks, herself not quite sure what her question is about. _Why_ wine _? Why me? Why_ you _? If you don't care about your tribute, why are you sitting here alone at crack of dawn?_ _Why are you offering me a drink, as if we were friends?_

Jaime shrugs, filling the flute in one smooth movement: even left-handed, he wouldn't be out of place at a fancy Capitol dinner party. "Why not? You just lost your tribute, it has been tough games all around and you look like you could use a drink." He pushes the drink over the table. "Victors stick together you know."

Brienne's hand reaches for the glass almost reflexively, but the sheer hypocrisy of the last words is enough to give her a pause. "This, coming from you of all people," she scoffs, incredulous.

The look Jaime gives her is all irritation, but there's something deeper than annoyance in his eyesthat Brienne cannot name. "Seriously now? I knew you had a stick up your ass the moment you took the stage in self-righteous indignation, but you couldn't get fifteen minutes into conversation before bringing up poor Aerys Targaryen?" He scowls. "Face it, Four. We are both killers here. You have no business claiming moral high ground."

Brienne bristles, sensing how the sharp words hit the chinks in her armour she's not yet prepared to acknowledge. "My name is Brienne, not Four. And it is possible even for a killer to have a shred of honour.

The golden eyebrows shoot up. For all the mockery, there is something like pity in Jaime's expression as he regards her.

"You really believe that, don't you?" His voice is soft, contemplative. "My, my. Next you are going to be all outraged by me screwing my sister."

Brienne gets up and walks away.

Somewhere behind her, the trumpets declare Jon Snow a winner of the 62nd Hunger Games.


	3. PART 3

PART 3

Goodwin asks Brienne's help with training potential tributes and she is surprised to discover she doesn't hate it. She would even consider it enjoyable, if not for the ticking clocks over the young heads looking to her for instructions that could save them. Gone are the days when she was still a student and they cheeky juniors all too quick to pick up the taunts their elders used to throw at her. They listen to her now and its not long before they start to come to her for advice.

Brienne is not surprised to discover Sansa has found her way amongst the preselected candidates: it's not uncommon for those spared from arena to keep reaching for it, as if they had a debt to repay, or as if they had been cheated out of some predestined fate. It makes her uneasy, however, particularly when the younger girl comes asking her for private lessons.

She bites her lip, tempted to refuse outright, but knowing it would resolve nothing. It is not a desire to learn a few tricks with sword that is an issue here. "Does your mother know about this?"

Sansa is fourteen now, taller and more confident than when Brienne first met her and she meets her gaze steadily. "I do not wish to worry her. Look, I'm not saying I would volunteer, but it is something I need to learn. If only to deal with nightmares."

Brienne searches her friend's blue gaze for guile, finding none. She's sure Sansa is holding back from her, but the younger girl is entitled to her secrets and she understands nightmares better than most.

/ /

The 63rd Annual Hunger Games approach with depressing speed and all the victors feel it. Olenna's temper is enough to keep everyone in respectful distance. Goodwin locks himself away with potential tributes, only surfacing for quick meals and a few hours of sleep. Loras glowers at Brienne more than usual and she bites back caustic remarks about his newest Capitol lover, firmly telling herself it is not her place to judge. Everyone deals with their grief differently.

It is during this fragile period of tense expectation that the name 'Targaryen' once again reaches the collective consciousness of Four victors.

"You are absolutely sure?" Goodwin asks with a frown, already calculating how this new development would affect the chances of his protégées. More than any of them, Goodwin is a mentor to the core.

Olenna twirls an olive between her fingers before popping it into her mouth. "Varys has no reason to lie. If he's the one spreading rumours, then it's because he wants it known well before the reaping day. Drum up support for the boy before he even volunteers."

Goodwin's face twists into a sneer. District One escort's methods are no news to any of them. "Is he any good?"

Olenna shrugs. "He's a Targaryen and Mad Aerys son. He will either be magnificent or fail spectacularly."

Brienne frowns at that. "Surely District One wouldn't set a tribute up for a failure." They were far too proud to purposefully show themselves in a bad light for cheap drama.

"Not without a good reason, no," Olenna concedes. "It's possible the boy is too much for them to handle and letting him self-destruct means less hassle all around. They might hope to permanently wash their hands of the embarrassment of Aerys memory. There might be a pressure from higher up to put the boy to arena. Mad or no, his father was still a victor and his brother made it into final two. Excellent ratings are guaranteed." She grinned at Brienne's expression. "I'm afraid you have a lot to learn about how the Games work."

"So I'm starting to discover," Brienne answers, wondering what the other victors were making of this new development.

/ /

"Rather full of himself, isn't he?" Jon Snow observes as the chariots ground to a stop right below them. Victors and Gamemakers always get the best seats for these kinds of events.

Brienne has to acknowledge that Viserys Targaryen looks excellent in his chariot, greeting the crowds more like a lost prince returned to his rightful inheritance than a tribute entering a deadly competition. His stylist had foregone the usual District One solutions, preferring the dragon motives in red and black that would remind the crowds of the very first victor of the Hunger Games, Aegon Targaryen, this boy's grandfather. She wonders if the boy is truly fearless, or if the possibility of failure hasn't even occurred to him.

Samwell Tarly nods, apparently starting to get over the fact that he's standing between two proven killers. "I have never seen someone so eager to volunteer. It's like he can't wait for the Games to start." The young man gulps at the thought, his pale face glistening with sweat. _A Gamemakers' assistant of all the possible career choices?_ Brienne doubts she will ever stop being baffled by the Capitolites.

"He's popular though," Jon observes grimly. "It will be difficult for ragtag districts to get anything from the sponsors this year." He sighs. "And here I thought Grenn had a real chance. He's strong as an ox, if not as bright. At least he's not a twelve year old"

Sam blanches at the thought and Brienne looks away. She knows by now that outer districts were lucky when they got one older tribute and she feels a hot stab of shame when she recalls her childhood scorn towards the districts who wouldn't have volunteers to protect their little ones. Reality was turning out to be rather more complicated than a sheltered child in a favoured district could have ever expected.

/ /

"So Viserys," Illyrio Mopatis is practically preening. "What would you consider your greatest advantage in the Arena?"

Viserys Targaryen twists his long pale fingers in nervous rhythm. Now that he's sitting down there is no hiding of the agitated restlessness that accompanies his every move. His pale eyes are alight with a desperate fervour of one who has suffered and lost too much on his chosen path to ever doubt the viability of going forward, let alone the righteousness of it.

"I'm a dragon." A statement of fact, but one that demands confirmation and acknowledgement all the same. "Fire cannot kill a dragon."

The crowds love it.

/ /

In the end it's not fire that kills Viserys, but it's close enough. Drogo of district Ten is no trained tribute, but he's just as creative with his kills: the pot of boiling oil turned over Viserys head is enough to briefly propel Drogo on top of the favourites' list, only for him to succumb to little Mirri of district Five. Mirri in her turn dies screaming in the fire trap Gamemakers must have designed specifically with Viserys in mind. By the time Jhaqo of Two raises his arakh in a final gesture of triumph, it's a firm opinion in Capitol that those have been the most splendid Games in a recent memory.

/ /

"I'm sorry, I didn't think anyone would be up here."

Jaime Lannister doesn't turn away from the edge of the rooftop. He's drinking straight from bottle this time, none of those ridiculously fussy-looking crystal flutes in sight. "The air's free," he shrugs, eyes fixed on the city below.

Brienne closes the door behind here, drawn closer almost despite herself. "Aren't you supposed to be on the closing ceremony?"

"Aren't you?" He shots back, taking a swig. "I bailed out. Wouldn't do to seem like I'm gloating. Terrible for our image."

Brienne shakes her head, stepping closer to the edge. From this height, the city looks like a different world. Pretty. Clean. Safe. "I'm amazed you came at all. Your sister's staying away."

"Cersei's pregnant. She has an excuse." He takes another swig and sharp smell of alcohol fills the air. Definitely not wine. "We can't both skip the Games. Capitol loves us too much."

Brienne's surprised at the bitterness in voice. She has rarely heard a victor talk openly about Capitol in such a way and never One or Two victors, who are supposed to be the most loyal. "I was under the impression you loved Capitol just as much," she answers carefully, wary of saying anything that could be interpreted as treasonous. Jaime might be drunk but that was no reason to trust him, especially on subjects where she couldn't sort out her own feelings.

Lannister gives her a look of patronising amusement she's already learning to loathe. "Capitol always gets everything backwards. They think I adore them enough to fuck Cersei for them."

Brienne doesn't answer. What words would even suffice?


End file.
